


Where demons sleep

by Unpainted Canvas (RatTale)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad, Suggestion of possible rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 08:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15553296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/Unpainted%20Canvas
Summary: Holmes says 'I love you', and Watson panics.





	Where demons sleep

“I love you.”

 

His heart stopped. Holmes, still under drug, pain and exhaustion, did not notice, didn’t hesitate to pull the hand closer to his face, to press a light kiss to the palm, and murmur more past a filter which seemed to have been abolished entirely, “For so very, very long... can’t even think when you’re not near,” he pressed his forehead to Watson’s fingers, his hand still gripped lightly, “Could there be something more between us, Watson?”

 

It's staggering how quickly demons can wake up.

 

His heart sat frozen, his throat clamped tight from shock and trepidation, the soft fear expanding and building to a panic. But he squeezed back, unwilling to run just yet – unwilling to abandon him, and said softly, “Rest now, Holmes.”

 

So trusting, his friend smiled and did as he was told. He curled up a little tighter and in less than five breaths he dropped off into asleep. With care Watson extracted his hand and stood, his heart beating loudly in his ears, and hands trembling.

 

He stumbled to the window, legs feeling like wet clay; heavy and soft. His hands gripped the cold windowsill, using it as an anchor against a storm made up of a darkness he never quite managed to forget, his chest contracting in painful spasms as he forced back tears. Shuddering breaths brought a slow calm to his limbs, and with another tight swallow he opened his eyes.

 

Not again. The thought pulsed and cut through him, and made his heart stutter and hands begin to tremble a new.

 

The window reflected his expression – shocked and pale. Reflecting beyond features things only he could identify, demons which haunted dreams and days alike. Quiet, dark things that reminded him why he never let people as close as he used to.

 

He wondered if Holmes would be able to see those demons. He wondered if Holmes knew about dark memories, things which kept Watson from sleeping at night, if he had deduced what had been done to him. How people had held him down and taken what was never theirs to even touch, who had bred and created those monsters he now had to fight back into submission at every turn. He doubted it, at the end of the day people only really saw what they wanted to see, and no one wanted to acknowledge this type of abuse.

 

His hands tightened into hard fists, nails scraping against the rough stone.

 

Where the hell had this come from? When had Holmes even developed feelings?

 

He sighed and closed his eyes again, pressing his forehead against the icy glass. That was bitterly unfair, Holmes was as emotional as the next man, sometimes more so. He cared, painfully, and he felt mishaps and mistakes so acutely it drove him to narcotics. He saw misery and pain in such detail he would hide in his room – those dark moods brought on by his inability to fix what he could see was broken, and he struggled to let go when things went wrong.

 

Holmes, despite convinced of the opposite, was an intensely passionate and emotional creature.

 

Outside snowflakes fell from a sky wrapped up in clouds, in the streets he could see some figures shuffle and bustle through the white cold, they in turn wrapped up in layers of wool and fabric. Watson longed to run outside and keep running until his legs gave up, until he could escape this whole affair.

 

The question wasn’t whether he cared about Holmes, there wasn’t a creature on this earth he admired more. Not even his sweet Mary could compare. But that was the problem. He wanted Holmes, had wanted him for a long time, but he was so very contended with simply being close, being his friend with no fear of being hurt in the process.

 

He honestly didn’t want to face this.

 

Touch from an unwanted source had become a bane, his trust shattered under hands he had once loved to be held in. He didn't want Holmes to become a apart of that nightmare. Because monsters, put there by wounds and pain, reminded him of all those times he had trusted himself into the hands of men who had said the same.

 

‘I love you.’

 

He scoffed, and pushed away from the window, gaze now pinned to the wooden frame. Idle words, only said to ensure they could get what they want. Yet there was that small comfort that Holmes wouldn’t be the same. That he wasn't the same.

 

 _Neither was Nigel._ His memory supplied.

 

Some part of him hoped, dearly hoped that Holmes would simply forget what he'd said in his drug and fever induced mind. There was a good chance, and he sincerely hoped it would turn out as such – but Holmes always managed to go against the grain. He smiled, of course he would remember.

 

Watson turned; Holmes lay curled up beneath piles of warm blankets, sound asleep. His sickness brought on by staking out as a bum in this frozen weather. He shook his head affectionately. Stubborn man. But, as always, he figured it out and saved a young man from being hanged. It was that; his determination, passion and above all kindness that had Watson dreading this conversation.

 

Despite those demons, that ugly history, he knew he would not be able to say no.

 

He sank into his chair, crossed his arms tightly around his gasping lungs, and waited for his friend's fever to break. Whatever the future held for them, Watson would endeavor to remain as stout a friend as he'd always been. It wasn't difficult, it never was when it concerned Holmes.

 

He watched him, and tried to forget all the pain from his past. Which only served to give those monsters food, and soon he was drawn into that darkness, his heart heavy with pain and mind awhirr with awful scenarios of all those what-will-happen-nows.

 

Not one of them ended up with a happy ending.

 

No less than two hours later, Holmes' fever finally broke, and Watson spared no time in heading out into the bitter cold. The apartment had become stifling, suddenly filled up with ancient memories mixing up with imagination, staining his home with a darkness which he couldn't bare.

 

He needed air. The icy wind burned down his lungs, bit through his coat and forced his hands deeper into his pockets. Without much thought of destination he took to the streets, allowing his feet to guide him down the iced cobbles.

 

His friend had as deep a hold on him as drink had gripped his brother, he could no more say no to him than he could deny himself water. Holmes was his drug, his addiction, and if he asked, no matter how bitterly he didn't want to, Watson would fold. Because Watson did love Holmes, perhaps even more fiercely than Holmes loved him.

 

And he knew Holmes would take advantage of that, use him for what he wanted and then leave. Like Richard, he would grow tired of him and leave without an explanation or word. Because why on earth would Holmes want him when he could have anyone he desired?

 

But he still wouldn't be able to say no. And now he can't run any more – because Holmes would push this, he would pull Watson into his gravity and destroy him. Because Holmes never took no for an answer.

 

His hand tightened in his coat pocket and he felt emotion press up in his chest, but he burned it down with sheer determination. Choice or no choice, he would not let this consume him.

 

But touch will summon memories of Nigel’s sudden switch from lover to monster. Whispered promises will remind him of all of those which had been broken by Richard. And a simple kiss, a betrayal from an Uncle he’d adored.

 

Demons slept until they are awakened, and then it became a battle he can never seem to win.  
  
And he still he knew, he would not say no.

 

His walk took longer than expected, and by the time he reached Baker Street it was well past midnight. From the street he could see the lights still burning in the sitting room. A heavy weight landed in his chest, and taking a hearty breath Watson headed inside, welcomed by warmth and a relieved Mrs. Hudson.

 

Upstairs he hung up his hat, coat and cane and stepped into the sitting room. Holmes, dressed in only a nightshirt, dressing gown and slippers, stood almost instantly. His expression marred by worry, with a hint of uncertainty.

 

Watson fought the urge to run instantly, and managed to remain standing. Which is all he could bring himself to do. Holmes and he stared at each other, the world stopping around them if the piercing silence was anything to go by. Holmes finally broke the stare, lowering his gaze. Watson swallowed.

 

He could already hear the first whispered words, said to open skin, which fell away in the wake of destruction. Like a blackness, those demons rose within him, halting speech and suffocating joy.

 

“Watson... I...” he stopped, glanced up, dropped his gaze again and turned to pick up his pipe with trembling hands. “I know it wasn't a dream.” he laughed, “I can tell, if not by your absence, then certainly by your expression.”

 

Watson remained silent, whatever happened after this, he would try and cherish every moment before it all fell apart. But until then, he would not make it easy. None of them had ever made it easy for him.

 

He held the pipe but did not light it, “I've felt this way for a while now.”

 

Of course you have. They all start like that. Making me feel wanted and loved. Somehow convincing me they love me, despite my better judgment. But I’ll fall for this one too, because despite my better judgment, I love you.

 

“You are a remarkable man, the only one who... stayed.” he smiled lightly, it seemed more like a grimace. He turned, expression suddenly fierce. “You've become quite precious to me, Watson.”

 

Here it comes. The deceleration and the hope to pursue this to its end. _Which will end with me broken, and you moving on_.  
  
“Watson I ...”

 

Love you, care for you, be with me forever – just say what you wanted to! Like a black coat, the darkness wrapped around him, keeping him despondent and so very, very lost. Just call upon memories you have no concept of, and then leave me to fall back into those depths when you tire of me, or betray me.

 

It's just another monster I'll manage to fight on my own.

 

“I am so sorry, my friend.”

 

For a moment he couldn’t think.

 

“Please believe me, I am.” keeping his eyes to the floor, he rubbed his brow and continued in a tone weaved from pure desperation, “If I promise you that I will never touch you, that I will never press advances, that I shall never make you uncomfortable. Would you consider staying?” he moved closer, eyes beseeching, but Watson wasn't paying much attention. The words rang in his ears. It made his chest contract, but not in an unpleasant way.

 

“Watson, I cannot lose you.” he was only a few feet away now, keeping a gentle distance, as if worried he might spook him, “You must understand that was a slip in a fever induced state, I would never have said anything. I would never have put you in this position, I swear it.”

 

Watson's eyes blurred, and his hand reached up to pressed against his mouth, the other wrapped around his midsection.

 

“Watson?”

 

He shook his head. This was not how it was supposed to go... not even a little bit. When he closed his eyes, tears slid down without his consent, silent and shaking he took soft breaths, hoping to calm himself.

 

A hand soft hand touched his shoulder and when he looked up, Holmes stood before him, expression worried, kind and fierce all at the same time, “My dear man,” he said, voice trembling with emotion, “Who hurt you?”

 

And he couldn't stop it. In the next moment he pressed into Holmes' chest, letting long warm wrap around him as a lifetime of sorrow finally ripped loose. He cried until everything hurt, from his leg to his arm gripping his shirt. Until he had a headache, until he felt lethargic and so very tired.

 

Holmes held him, as friendly and brotherly as any man would, it only made him shudder more, he really loved him. Holmes loved him, loved him enough to abstain, to let _him_ decide if he was willing to stay, not be with him but simply stay with him.

 

And somehow that realisation pierced through that darkness. “At my pace?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

Watson swallowed, fear suddenly tight in his throat, he closed his eyes and said again, “I'm willing Holmes,” he cleared his throat rough and raw, “But if we do this. Can we do so at my pace?” And Watson let his arms wrap a little tighter around him, hoping to help him understand.

 

“Oh my dearest Watson!” he could hear the smile in his voice, “Of course, but only if you want to,” a light hand brushed his hair, careful and gently, “I'd never wish for you to do anything you do not wish to.”

 

Another bout of tension rushed out. Watson looked up, and Holmes stared back, eyes and expression as open as he'd ever seen them, and he was reminded in that moment why he was willing to do this. There wasn't a man in the world he trusted more. He leaned up and kissed him, the lightest press of lips, just enough to convince him, to ensure they understood each other and to chase away the first of many demons into oblivion.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sadness. (But happiness too ^_^)


End file.
